


Between A Girl and an Old, Blue Box

by AnotherAspiringAuthor



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Angst, Bittersweet, Canon Compliant, Character Study, F/M, Longing, Mutual Pining, One Shot, Pining, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Season/Series 05, Short
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-08
Updated: 2020-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:40:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23058655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnotherAspiringAuthor/pseuds/AnotherAspiringAuthor
Summary: He is so tired of pretending not to care.
Relationships: Eleventh Doctor/Amy Pond
Comments: 4
Kudos: 33





	Between A Girl and an Old, Blue Box

**Author's Note:**

> Very short. Quality over quantity hopefully. I'm a sucker for this pairing. 
> 
> Inspired by a rewatch of Nu-Who, most recently with season five. All comments and constructive criticism welcome!

He doesn’t want to give her the opportunity to not care about the consequences – maybe, he wouldn’t either if that came to pass.

But by all the true gods and false gods and would-be-gods the universe might place in front of him, he wasn’t half getting tired of pretending not to care. In his first weeks of regeneration, when he’s still breaking this new body in (young, energetic, so much _more_ energetic than he was used to, practically _manic_ , he could never just shut his mouth), he is chased and cornered like prey against his TARDIS, soft lips pressing against his own in a way that reminded him of finding a missing jigsaw piece one had been searching for, for years.

Stuck between an old, blue box and a pretty woman, seared onto his hearts with her character and stubborn wit, her wonder and admittedly very attractive….

He blames that on the cricket bat to his head whilst he was still cooking, his microwave timer practically dinging _done_ as his eyes traced long pale legs that seemed to never end up and up and…

Blimey. Hell of a way to develop a thing for legs that, upon reflection.

_It’s been a while?_

_Ye-No!_

Goodness, he is tired of pretending not to care and want. For half a second, he allows soft lips to press against his own once more, begs his ancient, lonely brain to remember this moment and allow it to be enough before bringing everything to a halt.

This new face remembers his old face’s friends. Donna, the girl who saved the universe, who history will forget. Martha, the medical student turned into soldier because of his careless attentions. Rose...

Ah. Rose.

Seems to still be a bit of a sore spot that. Stranded in a parallel universe with a half-human version of his old self, angry, _so angry_ at the world, thinking that he didn’t-that only his _lesser_ self could-

And so, for the first in a rather long time, he does domestic.

Bah.

In all fairness, Rory isn’t all that bad. Robbing him of his bigger on the inside moment, his rare moment to show his beautiful, wonderful machine off for the prize she is to the outside world does niggle him the wrong way, but he appreciates the intelligence, the curiosity, the simple _care_ that would drive him to read all those science books leading him to the idea of the TARDIS being a pocket dimension. He appreciates (see: despises) the care in Rory’s eyes when he gazes at Amy, even with all the hurt and jealousy swirling within them given recent revelations that his fiancé ran away with a madman in a box.

Then comes the real juicy stuff. The hard-hitting stuff that shows Rory Williams is not a man who holds his tongue when he has something to say. He appreciates the courage it takes to do this.

 _You have no idea how dangerous you make people to themselves_.

He does not, however, appreciate this (very incorrect) breakdown of his character. Not in the slightest.

 _I do_ , he wants to snarl and scream back at this tiny, young, ignorant little human. _I know exactly what I do to the people around me, why the bloody hell did you think I bought you along when all I want to do is run away with your wife for the rest of eternity?_ Hundreds of years old and here he was, still shouting at people in his head, still having to remind himself to stick to the rules, to be kind, to be a Doctor, not a Lord of Time.

And so, he ducks his head in shame before a scream grabs their attention and due events take their course.

He doesn’t want another loved one broken, lost, abandoned, killed. Carefully keeping his distance is the only safe way to travel, isn’t it? There is only so much a Time Lord can do to limit distance, however, when the opposing force is so bright and warm and beautiful. Even speaking her name in his mind seems taboo, a tainting of something so wonderfully fairy-tale.

* * *

One day, they visit a dead planet. The cities still stand, a monument to the sins of the youthful and the angry and the ones who just didn’t know better. The dust swirls, a testament to the fact that he couldn’t save every planet, couldn’t save every being in existence. He was good, but no one could quite be that good. Not every day.

One day, he stands in the ruins of a dead civilisation as his companion’s gape at the towering structures around them. He kneels, dust coating his knees, dust coating his fingertips when they ghost softly across the stony, cold ground. He wonders if Gallifrey looked like this after he used the Moment to doom his home to ruin, wondered if even dust remained of the Lords of Time and the towering structures they had built.

One day, he sees all the possibilities for this planet. He can hear the laughter, see the smiles, the curiosity and the love that might have existed in this pocket of space that might have been, on another day, in another time, had he strolled out of his beautiful blue box in just the right space. He feels the pain of a thousand souls incinerating under a nuclear heat in a single second, can hear the screams of fear and anguish crying out for someone to help them, a god or an angel or a Doctor to heal their world’s fractured wounds. Tears fall of their own accords, quickly wiped as his companions catch up to him.

And such is the curse of a Time Lord. Doomed to know what might have been, had the universe been kind.

One day, a pale hand, freckles dotted across the connected wrist, falls across his own plain one, resting on the TARDIS console. He thinks, stupidly, that he would like to map her freckles out like constellations in the night sky one day. Warm eyes furrow in concern at his own old ones.

 _Are you okay?_ _You look a little…_

Lost. Angry. Lonely. Afraid.

_…tired._

Eloquence too. She might not speak High Gallifreyan, but she didn’t half know how to pick words sometimes.

 _I’m fine_ , he says with a smile and a flourish around the console, hands flicking switches and turning knobs. Where is Rory he wonders? Where is his safety rail against this very tempting fall?

_You don’t look fine._

Persistent too. Why are all his favourite ones always so damned persistent? His body stills, hands braced on his console, eyes tracking this red-haired Valkyrie as she carefully rounded to his side. Gentle hands take his sides and spin him, face to face. Truly, he wishes he could kiss her freely, gently, like the gases of a nebula drifting timelessly across the universe without a care or a hurry or a worry. Instead, he gives her a small smile that doesn’t quite hide his sadness, that doesn’t quite reach his eyes and places his own hands on her shoulders.

_I will be. I always will be._

And that was the promise he made to all of reality, wasn’t it? He would always be okay, so others might not be. He would always be ready to ache, so that others might be saved of it. He would always be ready to burn an entire species for all of reality and-

Bad. Bad, bad rabbit hole. Bad.

Hands move from his shoulders to his cheeks. Soft and gentle and warm and it is a struggle to not close his eyes against that sort of sanctuary. He is so, so tired of pretending not to care.

 _I’m_ _right here if you need me_ , she says and he has to wonder when her voice turned into such a quiet, intimate whisper. _It’s alright, if your not alright_.

He’s so tired of pretending not to care and allows himself the luxury of a lingering hug, arms tight around his fairy-tale woman and lips pressed against her cheek, dangerously close to her lips. When he pulls back, he doesn’t quite manage to hide the tears in his eyes. He doesn’t quite think he has to, in this moment. Two hearts, beating so frantically with fear, and love, and anger since the moment of his regeneration slow to a calming beat.

 _Thank you_ , he says, even as two pairs of eyes glance down at two sets of lips with love and longing and sadness. From the stairs leading up away from the console, Rory calls, yells in a panic. Probably found the swimming pool in the library.

She leaves with a sad, quiet smile and a final kiss to his cheek and it has been a long, long time indeed since the Doctor has watched someone leave with such an ache in his hearts.

He is so old, and so goddamned _tired_. Stuck between a girl, a blue box and an unmoving universe.

Story of his life, huh?


End file.
